


Ballast (English Version)

by LindseyWells



Category: Jurassic Park (Movies), Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Eating Disorders, F/M, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5460518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindseyWells/pseuds/LindseyWells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It does not matter whether Claire steps on the scale or reads official reports on the <em>tragedy</em> that happened in Jurassic World, it is always too much. Claire wishes she could starve the number of deaths away, just like the number on the scale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ballast (English Version)

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Ballast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201035) by [LindseyWells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindseyWells/pseuds/LindseyWells). 



Too much guilt.  
Too much weight.  
Too much of her.

It does not matter whether Claire steps on the scale or reads official reports on the _tragedy_ that happened in Jurassic World, it is always too much. Claire wishes she could starve the number of deaths away, just like the number on the scale. Nobody has to worry about her, for Claire knows exactly what she is doing. After all, she is familiar with both diets and responsibility. That she is currently feeling like a complete loser in the face of responsibility is no-one's business. She is going to make sure that it will never happen again.

 

It begins with a little more training each day and a little less calories per meal.  
Soon, it is a meal less and an hour of training more. The number on the scale reacts, the number in the reports does not.

 

In her sterile apartment, Claire runs mile after mile on her treadmill. Runs and runs and runs, while the disgusting sweat streaming down her body reminds her of the dirty bad lot she is. As the park's operations manager she should have listened to Owen. Instead of profit and the park's reputation, human lives should have been on her mind. What the hell was wrong with her?

What the hell _is_ wrong with her?

The answer is obvious: She is good for nothing. While InGen's lawyers have got their hands full, Claire can do nothing except for wash her hands. She scrubs and scours them with the most aggressive detergents until all ten fingers are bright red and practically free of blood. Almost clean. Almost. By and by the burning redness fades away and Claire is left with fingers like icicles. She hardly ever leaves her apartment and only answers calls from her company. In order to get a little distance between her and the recent events in Jurassic World, InGen has suspended her. Claire has no idea who is currently replacing her but she understands. She keeps on running and running and, like a caged animal, she is damned to go nowhere.

Grocery shopping has turned into the only thing regularly forcing her outside, to the nearest supermarket. Shoulders perfectly straight, she marches along the shelves in her tailor-made woman's suit and judges every single product. Nothing meets her requirements. Things are too fatty, too unhealthy, too high in calories. Things are just like Claire: a complete irresponsibility for the consumer.  
With each trip to the supermarket her yield becomes smaller, and when Claire returns home a condemning silence awaits her. Often the light of the answering machine makes her listen to messages she does not want to listen to. Deleting Owen's voice from the tape is easy. Deleting it from her mind is impossible. He is always there. She keeps on running and running, yet she is unable to leave Owen behind.

Sometimes Claire feels somehow compelled to answer one of his text messages. With very few words she pushes Owen away, tells him she has no time, she has too much to do. He has to understand. The number is still too high, and Claire weighs herself in the morning, at noon and in the evening. Soon, she starts weighing herself several times in between, just to make sure she does not become more. The less she is, the less damage she can cause. Owen should thank her for erasing herself from his life.

Unfortunately, Owen is not the only person who wants to know how Claire has been doing since she got suspended and had been sent back to the mainland. From time to time, Karen's name appears on the display of Claire's cell phone and feels like an actual threat to Claire. Both Zach and Gray are alive, yet Claire cannot get the worst case scenario out of her head. If the boys had died it would have been so much more than a tragic accident. It would have been a family thing. Despite the fact that her nephews survived, things are still bad because way too many people did not have the same luck as Gray and Zach had. Claire doubts that talking to her sister will be of any help in this matter. Neither the dead nor herself are going to get better through the exchange of words.

 

At night, when Claire finally allows herself to go to bed, it is her body versus the rock-hard mattress. Tossing and turning, Claire cannot live with the person she is. Sleep comes either as an overwhelming surprise or does not show up at all. At least the scale and the numbers are always there. The poor imitation of a smile nestles on Claire's lips whenever she puts her feet on the scale. The two of them have already experienced a lot together. The scale's small pointer is a strict but reliable ally, knowing neither pity nor the art of lying. If it stagnates then it is entirely Claire's fault. Nobody else's. Yet, the moment it actually happens, Claire is unwilling to accept it. She steps off the scale, breaths in deeply, breaths out, and steps back on the scale. The number is the same as before.  
The guilt is too heavy.  
Claire could starve away her own weight a dozen times, but she will never lose the weight of guilt. As if she was sedated, Claire drags herself out of the bathroom, enters the living room, slumps herself on the cream-colored sofa, and wraps a blanket around her freezing body. Not realizing she has forgotten to switch on the light, she just sits there, doing nothing, while the first cold rays of the winter sun creep through the windows.  
The voice mail Owen left the day before sounds angry. He has absolutely no right to be angry, Claire thinks. Another date with him is out of question since dates usually include food and alcohol. Both would throw Claire back in her plans and she no longer has the energy to discuss her diet with Owen. He does not get it anyway. He never did. A woman has to watch her figure. A woman like Claire has to find a way to deal with all the weight on her shoulders...

 

Some six weeks later, Claire is allowed to start working from home. Not as the park's operations manager of course; for now she is occupied with the development of new marketing strategies urgently needed to convince future sponsors. She gets down to work with the ambition of a hungry raptor which sees prey for the first time within three days. In her overheated apartment she forgets what being cold is like and whenever her lazy circulatory dares to ask for a break she muzzles it with another cup of coffee.  
_Sorry, I'm busy_ , appeases she Owen again and again, sounding like a broken record. Claire suppresses this inconvenient truth by burning her tongue on the clear soup which is both her lunch and her dinner at once.

In the following days, she checks her cell phone frequently for new messages. Negative. Still, Claire cannot get rid of this habit. Checking her cell phone again and again, she always hopes to receive a sign of life from Owen. When the third day passes without a word, Claire furiously throws her phone on the couch. This fucking idiot! Deep down Claire is certain that this is not about Owen being unable to understand her situation. This is about him being not man enough to tell her that he is secretly blaming her for everything that went wrong. He wants to see her eat a lot of crow and tell him that she should have listened to him. That he was right and she was wrong. That is why he is so eager to meet her, is not it? Claire is one hundred percent sure that she has finally seen through Owen's façade, but under these circumstances the thing she and Owen had is not going to survive...  
Devastated, Claire rushes into the kitchen. Searching for food, she opens every cupboard, but low fat yogurt, a packaged salad, instant soup, and vitamin powders are all there is. This cannot be true. This just cannot be true! Claire's hunger goes on the warpath and manages to gain complete control of her. Then there is an unknown voice; Claire is on the phone, listening to her greedy self ordering a family pizza with extra cheese. Her lips are damn traitors that reveal her address without scruple. The pizza guy hangs up and Claire is lost in the silence of her kitchen. About ten minutes later the doorbell rings and the delivery boy proudly presents a giant pizza box. The corners of Claire's mouth feel dislocated. With the bad imitation of a smile she pays for her order and then walks straight back into the kitchen. The delicious smell makes her mouth water and her stomach greets the food with a welcoming noise. Cussing, Claire puts the pizza box on the counter, opens a door, and throws slice after slice into the garbage can.

Five hours later Claire is back in the kitchen. The pitch-black night is the only witness while Claire wolfs down two slices of cold pizza from the garbage. Afterwards, fear and disgust shoo her directly into the bathroom and force her on her knees. Throwing up is her way of penance. Sins need to be confessed. Mistakes need to be corrected. 

She would do anything to make everything right again...

 

About two weeks later Claire gets an email, instructing her to return to Isla Nublar. InGen has regained control of the island and guarantees complete safety; Claire finds her travel documents attached to the email. Even though safety and control have turned out to be illusions, Claire does not have the slightest doubt.

“Wait, wait, wait! Are you telling me you're going back?” Karen's voice is so sharp that Claire fears it is cutting right through her eardrum. It reminds Claire of all the reasons why she had avoided answering the majority of her sister's recent calls. Besides, Claire is still not ready for any kind of deep family feelings and whenever Karen tried to dive into the topic, Claire found an excuse to hang up.  
“Sure. What did you expect?” Despite the fact that Karen answers with a very long silence, Claire refuses to believe that Karen actually thought Claire would quit her job and forget about the incident once and for all.

As the conversation continues, off-days are mentioned. The topic makes Claire uncomfortable as hell. Hence, she emphasizes that she is very sorry but she is currently unable to plan any family reunions because her next vacation has not been discussed yet.

 

Claire's thinned hair needs to be cut before she takes off to Isla Nublar. The chubby hairdresser eyes her suspiciously. She's probably jealous and has no clue how exhausting it is to be doomed to dragging the weight of dead people around with you. Claire looks cadaverous in the large shop mirror. The colors of life have long left her, and no make-up on earth can bring them back. Her skin is dry and ashen, almost transparent, and immune to moisturizer. Must be the weather or the artificial light. There is no other explanation for this, or is there? . . .

 

Claire knows the other InGen employees on the boat by sight, not by name. The temperatures are unusual low, so Claire is glad she has chosen particularly warm clothes this morning. The other people slice her open with their critical glances and worried faces, wondering if she is alright. Claire is deaf and blind for their concern. No-one has to worry about her. She knows exactly what she is doing and she is always alright. Her legs might feel extraordinary heavy and her body might have difficulties digesting even the smallest snacks, but Claire would never admit any of this. Neither her circulation problems nor the amount of sugar-free drops, also known as her secret weapon against the smell of decomposition stored in her hand bag, are anyone's business.

As soon as they arrive on the island and Claire turns her back on the small group, the whispering begins. . .

With a jeep provided by InGen, Claire heads to her quarter. The tropical climate tortures her stumbling heart and later turns the act of carrying her suitcase into a huge challenge. After she has unpacked some clothes, Claire has to lie down and rest. Black holes dominate her world and gravity is about to knock her down. These inconveniences have been accompanying her for so long now that Claire has learned how to put up with them. She has no other choice.

 

Suddenly there is a knock on the door, going right through Claire. Her brain needs a few seconds until it provides all the information Claire needs to get familiar with her current situation. Damn! She must have fallen asleep. Although she does not start working until tomorrow, she actually had plans for today. If she had gotten up-to-date with Jurassic World's latest developments immediately after her arrival on the island, the organization of her tomorrow would have been a lot easier and consequently her work much more efficient. So how could she make the inexcusable mistake to fall asleep in the middle of the day?

The sound of the impatient knock transforms into the sound of someone hitting his flat hand hard against the solid wood of the door. Stunned, Claire shoves her blanket aside, gets out of bed and tries to keep her balance. With her hands against the wall, Claire supports herself on her way to the door. The spinning of her world is just another problem she has gotten used to.

“Claire? Open the door! I know you're in there.” Owen. His hopping mad voice sends chills down Claire's spine. Standing as if rooted, she tries her best to chase the dizziness away.

“What..what do you want?” In spite of Claire trying to sound harsh, her words are crumbling under her soul's hurt. Allowing herself two deep breaths, Claire instructs her body to find its balance and rejects any further help from the wall. Fortunately, her legs do not let her down. Abruptly opening the door, she is ready to spit a 'I'm busy!' or 'It's over. Now leave me the hell alone!' in front of Owen's feet. Something is holding her back, though. Probably the visible terror which is conquering Owen's face in no time. His usually bright and courageous eyes shrink. An observation Claire has never made before and thus leaves her speechless.

Owen's shirt is dirty, his hair is a sweaty mess, and the nail of his right index finger has an ugly crack. Claire knows she is not the only one here capturing every single detail of the other's appearance. Owen scrutinizes her from head to foot. The horror in his eyes is getting bigger from second to second.

“The guys were right,” he eventually whispers under his breath and suppresses the urge to shy away from something that is scaring him so much that he wants to run away as far as possible. _Run, run, run._ Claire is familiar with this feeling but unable to locate the source of Owen's shock. It cannot be her, can it? After all she is not a man-made produced dinosaur that kills just for fun. She is a person of flesh and blood.

“You're nothing but skin and bones!” Owen's voice is even louder than Karen's were when Claire told her about returning to Isla Nublar. And since Owen is still Owen he does not turn around and run away but makes a step forward. In the face of the new closeness Claire slowly realizes how cold she actually feels. Her skin is blistered with goose bumps despite her high-class angora sweater.

“Damnit, Claire!” Burning wrath boils up in Owen and his presence does not permit Claire to close the door and put an end to this useless meeting. His hands find her shoulders. Heavy as lead, they hurt Claire's bones and she almost collapses under the foreign weight. The urge to break away from Owen arises in Claire, but then he unexpectedly leans back in order to lock her gaze.  
“What have you done?”

The question is not “What happened?”. It is “What have you done?”.  
Owen's face is no longer governed by anxiety, but butchered by anger. His whole body runs at full blast; Claire can feel him vibrate and the self-hatred she is bunking in her soul is so highly flammable that the sparking anger in Owen's eyes is enough to set her emotions on fire.

“What have I done?” It is unbelievable that he actually dares asking her this question! “What do you think I did? Tell me, Owen!” she cries. Her voice an animalistic scream that does not leave space for an answer. It just tears more and more words out off Claire's tortured soul. “Come on, tell me! Tell me that I killed them all! All those innocent people! Tell me, just fucking tell me that I'm a murderer!”

All her demands are in vain. Owen does not say a single word. He stands there as if Claire had thrown stones at him, not words.

Tormented by wild breaths, Claire's emaciated body can hardly support his own weight anymore. Slowly, Owen's hands slip down Claire's shoulders and pause placatory in the air – Calm down! – while Claire's lungs pant and rattle. She waits. She waits for him to do as she wants him to do. He should just tell her face-to-face, Here and Now, so her mind will no longer be haunted by the thought-image of him doing so.

“Tell me... God damnit, just fucking tell me!” Her screams transform into a distressed supplication. She knows very well that Owen is able to give her a lecture about what had needed to be done to rescue the poor visitors from a cruel death. He knows Claire's many mistakes. He knows every single one of them.

Claire's aggrieved pride thirsts for condemnation and punishment, just like Claire used to judge every person she has ever met by her own standards and if they did not meet them she ruthlessly put the people in the category 'faulty specimen'. Therefore, Claire has long come to the conclusion that Owen does not really want her anymore. Owen is too good to share his life with a mistake like Claire. . .

“...tell me,” beg her quivering lips again, weak and defeated. Owen, however, cannot but stare at her. He is silent, rigid, while Claire develops an understanding for the degrading fact that she is crying bitterly. The horde of black holes dominating her perception are more than the mere result of circulatory problems. Claire is practically blinded by her tears. God, she is so disgraceful, she is so useless. Why cannot Owen just say it? How come he is embracing her, acting like a pillar which saves Claire from collapsing?

“Listen, Claire. You can't assume the responsibility for everything that happened. Masrani is, _was_ the park's owner. He had the final say, and he misjudged the danger of the situation. Please don't forget this, ever.” Owen puts the facts in perspective and thereby smashes Claire's worldview of being the one and only true guilty person into thousands of pieces. The majority of them fall on the ground, and they take their weight with them. Some scuff her tripping heart and her rattling lungs, others land in her empty stomach where they settle down and continue to hurt. The pain is somehow bearable, though, because Owen neither gives Claire a lecture nor does he call her a mistake. He does not even leave her. He stays with her, holds her, so he can nourish her with the heat of his own body. He does not want another dead.

Claire is amazed that Owen has no difficulties whatsoever to lift her up and carry her into bed. It makes her realize that she is not too heavy. None of the things that she has said or done are too heavy for him.

**Author's Note:**

> First things first: I'd like to thank my beta Christina for her great beta-service! _*thank you very much for your help!*_
> 
> I'm also a little sorry that this story has an open ending. Although this is definitely not the end of Claire's struggle, I never had enough time and inspiration to write further chapters. However, I still hope some of you liked this story.


End file.
